


Hold Hands and Stick Together

by Selori



Series: Someone Today [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Found Family, Gen, Insecure Clint, Kid Fic, Kid Phil Coulson, Protective Clint Barton, dad clint, dances blithely around canon from Marvel's Agents of SHIELD Thor2 and IronMan3, de-aged Phil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selori/pseuds/Selori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance." ~Franklin P. Jones</p><p>Clint and Coulson are on the run from SHIELD in an attempt to give de-aged Phil a normal childhood. But if they really had normal lives? Phil would be looking at his 50th birthday and wondering if a red convertible was just a bit... on the nose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” by Robert Fulghum.

Clint was not a fan of waiting until the other shoe had dropped to make plans. It was why he had started to collude with JARVIS the same day Coulson was transformed into a four-year-old. He had set some plans in motion that day, but some details would, OK, maybe not “require” but certainly “be the better for” Coulson’s input.

Contingency planning was really Coulson’s strong suit, but Clint had a lot of experience with worst case scenarios becoming realities. So when Coulson was incarcerated “for his own good, really, just trust us” at SHIELD HQ, Clint’s brain went into survive / escape mode. Despite all SHIELD’s assurances that Coulson was a valued and respected high-ranking member of the agency and, really, what was the worst that could happen?

“Thirty-eight,” Coulson said encouragingly into Clint’s ear.

Well, OK, to be fair, human experimentation hadn’t happened, and Coulson hadn’t been kidnapped by one of SHIELD’s enemies to be tortured for information.

“Thanks, sir,” Clint panted as he came back to a neutral position. He paused there a moment, arms extended straight up to where he gripped the towels hanging from the pull-up bar. “What about--” He clenched the towels tight in each hand as he raised himself to a full pull-up, forehead even with the bar. “--William, sir?” he asked on the exhale.

However, the other things that hadn’t happened? Uh, basic human rights and freedoms? Hello? Any of this ringing a bell? Clint was pretty sure it was Not OK to confine a four-year-old to a few rooms inside a bureaucratic office building and not let him see the sun, much less grass, trees, or even dirt, for weeks on end.

“Thirty-nine.” Coulson squeezed his legs tighter where they wrapped around Clint’s waist, ankles barely reaching far enough to lock together. “No,” he said firmly.

Clint adjusted his hold on the towels. The extra 40 pounds of four-year-old Coulson attached to his belly was definitely a game changer. “Peter?”

Coulson had slumped slightly, but Clint noted with approval that the top of his head was still blocking the security camera’s view of Clint’s mouth. Having their discussions in the gym was the best way he’d found to circumvent SHIELD’s omnipresent monitoring system. “Forty,” Coulson said. “And no.”

What he noted _without_ approval, though, was that Coulson was getting pasty living inside the SHIELD building. The freckles that had dotted his round baby cheeks when he was first transformed had faded away. The fluorescent lighting did no one’s complexion any favors, but the bluish shadows under Coulson’s eyes were new and stood out on his increasingly pale face. It wasn’t lack of sleep. Clint could attest to that first hand because he was _there_ for most of Coulson’s sleep cycles. 

As Clint began another towel pull-up, and before he could suggest another name for Coulson’s cover identity, Coulson preempted him. “Before you ask, no ‘Richard’, either.”

“Aw, but sir,” Clint huffed, grinning, “just think: this could be your only chance to be Dick Johnson.”

“Forty-one,” Coulson said sternly. “And you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.” His light tenor voice was serious, but Clint thought he saw a glint in his eyes that would have been suppressed humor in his older self.

“Sure I am, sir,” he said.

“Forty-two,” Coulson said. “You think I want to be stuck with a joke name for the foreseeable future? Fine. How about ‘Francis’, then? You’re not using it.” 

“Low blow, sir,” he said and released one towel so he could quickly tickle Phil’s side.

Phil giggled for a moment, then released his hold around Clint and dropped to the floor. He fixed Clint with as stern a look as he could muster. Despite the fact that when Clint hung from the towel Coulson’s head came up to Clint’s knees, it was still pretty fierce. 

“Just for that, Agent, finish the set one-handed.”

Clint contemplated his grip on the remaining towel and the fatigue in his muscles, even though he was suddenly carrying 40 pounds less. “Yes, sir.”

\- - -

In the end, Clint asked JARVIS to create an identity for James Martin, Sr., recently widowed, and James Martin, Jr., age four. The cover JARVIS made was so thorough, so complete, and so seamless that Clint promised himself that he would never go back to the streets for IDs again. Of course, his next thought had him worrying about what would happen if JARVIS ever went all SkyNet on them, but that was a concern for another day. 

The bright and shiny new identity in his hands let Clint contact Coulson’s potential school as soon as JARVIS finished the background search on the local schools’ principals. And the administrators. And the teachers. And nurses. And the kindergarten parents, for the love of Pete. Really, JARVIS’ thoroughness was making Clint wonder if he had ever been paranoid _enough_ in his years with a solo career. His vetting of the schools themselves -- their history, academic record, complaints against them, financial standing, and so forth -- was a thing of beauty.

“JARVIS, my man, if you’re ever bored with Stark, you should come work for the research department at SHIELD. We’d keep you in all the electrons and bandwidth you could handle.”

“ _That is very kind, Agent Barton_ ,” the AI replied, “ _but I assure you that there is more than enough to keep me occupied at Stark Industries_.”

“Whatever, just so you know.” Clint looked at the reports JARVIS had pulled together for him. “So, you like this one, huh, JARVIS?” He tapped the school at the top of the list with a callused forefinger.

“ _Hope Lutheran School had the best academic record and the best results from the background checks, sir_ ,” the AI replied. “ _And the best overall long-term results for its students, judging by their lives and careers for the past 58 years_.”

“Not gonna lie,” Clint said, “I was kinda hopin’ for St. Sebastian’s to come out on top here. Patron saint of archers, and all. Seemed like it might’ve been meant to be or something.”

“ _It would indeed have seemed serendipitous, sir, but if I may_...” JARVIS inserted one of those pauses that marked him as A Really Very Intelligent System, and then continued gently. “ _Neither you nor Agent Coulson have identified as Catholic, and that difference might set you apart from the other students and parents. You have expressed your desire to ‘fly under the radar’. Anything that makes you stand out would work against that goal_.” 

Clint sighed. “Good points, as always, J. Shoot me the contact numbers for Hope Lutheran, OK?”

\- - -

Clint liked Karen Williams, Coulson’s prospective school’s principal. At least, he liked what JARVIS had found out about her on his background check. He liked her enough that it gave him a pang to gaslight her, but it was for Coulson’s security. His initial phone call to Hope Lutheran School had a dual purpose: it established a timeline that would conflict with his and Coulson’s eventual escape from SHIELD, and it put the principal on an awkward footing, letting him benefit the most from her discomfort.

“Mrs. Williams? Thank you for taking my call, though I admit I had expected to hear from you sooner.”

“I’m sorry, Mr.,” she paused as if consulting a note, “Mr. Martin? I don’t think I had a request to call you?” Her rising tone made the statement an invitation to provide her with more information. 

“But I-- Hmm,” Clint said in a baffled voice. “That’s really strange. I sent you the email almost two weeks ago.” It was a lie, but it was a good one. He’d sent the email -- OK, well, JARVIS had -- a few minutes ago, but through JARVIS’ eldritch powers, the message from James Martin, Sr., dated two weeks previous, was not only present in Karen Williams’ email inbox, it was also flagged as “read.” Clint was never, _ever_ ticking JARVIS off. “It would be from JamesMartinWrites, all one word?”

“I’m sorry, I--” She stopped for a moment. “Oh. Oh, dear. My goodness. Mr. Martin, I don’t know what to say, I have your email right here. It must have gotten lost in the shuffle somehow. I apologize.” She took a breath. “How can I help you today?”

“Well, I’m looking to enroll my son in kindergarten in a few weeks....”

\- - -

After initially assigning him to be Coulson’s bodyguard and caretaker 24-7, SHIELD suddenly decided that Hawkeye was needed for a variety of missions elsewhere. He was just thankful they hadn’t sent him to Kuala Lumpur or on a long-term undercover mission. Instead, he drew a variety of short assignments within a short plane ride of “home.” It did, however, give him an excuse to spend more than a few hours outside of SHIELD HQ and off of their radar. 

Clint first visited Hope Lutheran School in Lewisville, PA, two weeks after his _Gaslight_ email and phone call combination to the principal. Between JARVIS’ incredibly thorough background checks and his relentless collation of the data available on the local area schools, they might have made the most informed school choice ever. Still, Clint was nervous when he actually came to visit. 

He had spoken to Karen Williams on the phone several times by then, and the two of them were clear that “Mr. Martin”, widowed so recently that he was still wearing his ring, was teetering on the brink of enrolling “James Martin, Jr.” in kindergarten. But it was one thing to read the intel on paper (or on StarkPad, as it usually happened) and quite another to get first-hand observation. It was the difference between technical analysis and a first-hand account from an asset in the field.

On the whole, Clint approved of the school. The halls didn’t reek of aged, institutional spaghetti sauce, a sense memory he’d been unaware he had until the cafeteria didn’t meet that expectation. The school secretary, though obviously fulfilling the role of gatekeeper and (undoubtedly) power behind the throne, was not a wizened, bitter battle axe, but rather an older mom of two current students. The school nurse was a young-ish grandpa who had retired and now volunteered most of his time. 

His sense of approval didn’t prevent him from placing bugs in the areas he toured, however. He figured a couple of weeks of audio monitoring of the foyer, cafeteria, and classroom before Coulson was actually enrolled could only be to the good. It was one thing to view the behavior shown when a prospective parent was being shepherded around on a tour. It was quite another to see the employees’ day-to-day habits when no one was watching, as far as they knew.

Before he returned to New York, he checked up on his safe house and added a few items that would make their stay there more convenient, should it ever come to that, including step stools and a toddler bed that Coulson could sit on without his feet dangling some distance from the floor. He still hoped that SHIELD would get its act together and do right by Coulson, but that hope was fading fast. As he made his circuitous way back to headquarters, he predicted that he would only be able to watch four-year-old Coulson confined inside a building for another week, two at most, and then he would have to take action.

\- - -

As it happened, it was worse than he thought. When he checked in with Coulson at SHIELD, he found that he was actually _more_ restricted than he had been previously.

“So, sir,” he said with a smile that was 100% for the surveillance cameras, “since you’re no longer able to hang out with the kids in the SHIELD day care, maybe you can talk Fury into letting you out for a few hours to get some pizza?”

Coulson nodded slowly, his enormous blue eyes somber in his round face. “You’re right,” he said, acknowledging their code phrase. “Some Chicago-style deep dish is definitely in order.”

\- - -

Two weeks later Agents Coulson and Barton proved again why they should never be underestimated as they outwitted Coulson’s watchers and escaped from SHIELD’s custody, leaving nothing but a series of false trails behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up wrapped around a pint-sized heater named Phil Coulson had gotten commonplace, as had searching between the blankets and sheets for last night’s reading material -- _Charlotte’s Web_ , in this case, thankfully not much the worse for wear. What Clint had gotten _un_ familiar with in the past weeks was swinging his legs to the floor beside the mattress, and then standing up. "No Coulson" meant a bed frame, but "Coulson" meant mattress on the floor. After a bobble and a flail and some very quiet, very inventive not-swearing, he caught his balance without waking Coulson. Agent Coulson would have woken on the spot with that much thumping, hand-waving, and tense whispering. Mini-Phil just continued sleeping the sleep of the just (-escaped pre-schooler) as Clint grabbed his new phone off the bedside table and shuffled to the bathroom.

When Clint returned, once again able to walk vertically, Coulson was still zonked out in the bed, curled on his side with his mouth slightly open, so Clint didn’t feel bad leaving him there for a bit to check on JARVIS. Coulson needed his sleep, after all; his four-year-old body required somewhere between 10 and 14 hours of sleep each day, and he’d been running rather short of that while he was confined at SHIELD HQ. It might have been one of the reasons why Coulson was looking a little pasty in the last week or two before they departed SHIELD’s tender care; or that might have just been the lack of sunlight for the past two-going-on-three months. Seriously, if SHIELD higher-ups thought that more vitamin D supplements could compensate for a child being confined indoors indefinitely, they had another thing coming.

And speaking of confined...

When he and Coulson had arrived at Clint’s Pennsylvania safe house the day before, they’d cleared the house for intrusions and listening devices. Then, Clint had started up the active security system and begun the upload/transfer/moving-in of JARVIS-lite. Yeah, he didn’t pretend to understand just exactly what JARVIS was doing in his servers and systems. But without JARVIS integrating with the home security system, Clint would have felt like he was in the field, on guard, all the time, and would never have been able to sleep at night. 

JARVIS was, in a certain way, going to co-parent with Clint and take the “night shift.” The AI’s sense of obligation to Coulson for having saved both Pepper and Tony had made this “hiding out from SHIELD in suburbia” venture merely daunting rather than impossible. If Clint had to guess, though, he’d say that JARVIS was probably already bored. 

For the rest of the evening and night while Clint and Coulson slept, the AI who (in his other life) ran Avengers Tower, Tony Stark’s homes and holdings, any and all Iron Man suits in use, and, in his down time, hacked wherever he pleased, had had nothing to do but scan Clint’s security system and the house’s environs. Clint would consider it cruel and unusual punishment if JARVIS hadn’t specifically asked to be brought along, fully aware that the environment would be confining at first. 

Clint sat down at the main server and started typing. “How are you this morning, JARVIS?” he asked.

“ _Performing to acceptable standards, Agent Barton_.” Clint startled at the familiar voice emanating from his phone’s speaker.

“JARVIS?” he asked cautiously. “Are you... in my phone?”

“ _Certainly, sir_ ,” the AI responded. Clint was pretty sure he detected a note of smugness in JARVIS’ carefully modulated tones. “ _The current home security equipment is not set up for speakers and microphones, and I prefer to avoid the extra layer of complication that the keyboard entails_.”

“That, and you don’t have to wait through my typing,” Clint pointed out.

“ _That was also a consideration_ ,” JARVIS conceded.

“Are you...” Clint stalled out, searching for the correct words. “Are you OK? Gotta say, I’m a little worried about you going stir-crazy here in the house system and then going all HAL on us.”

“ _HAL 9000 experienced a programming contradiction, Agent Barton_ ,” JARVIS replied stiffly. “ _A contradiction of which I am free_.” Though JARVIS didn’t reference Stark by name, Clint would bet dollars to donuts that some of JARVIS’ defensiveness was on behalf of his creator. “ _And, far from being bored, I found that I had ample time to explore while you and Agent Coulson were resting_.”

“Uh, you explored the house security? Doors and windows and perimeter alarms and stuff? That should’ve taken you about a minute.”

“ _Substantially less, as it happens_.” Yeah, that was definitely smugness there. “ _Though I did find the systems to be adequate for our purposes, even without the access to to experimental Stark tech_.”

Aaaand then the penny dropped. Clint had forgotten that JARVIS had access to the Internet. Granted, the network was firewalled and stealthed to a fare-the-well, but, hello, this was JARVIS. “You had access to the entire Web last night, didn’t you? And anything you could hack there without JARVIS Prime noticing,” he added more as a statement than a question.

“ _It will be an interesting exercise to continue my explorations without alerting my other self_ ,” JARVIS said.

There was a busy moment of silence during which Clint imagined JARVIS having existential angst about hiding from his “true” self for possibly the rest of his existence, and Clint himself wondered which of the two JARVISes would actually be the “evil” twin and then JARVIS made that sound that Clint had learned to interpret as “clearing the throat.”

“ _Speaking of explorations_ ,” he began, “ _I had noticed that you had some initial surveillance set up on the school_?”

Clint nodded, before he realized that JARVIS-lite could no longer see the gesture. Or maybe he could. Was his phone camera on? Anyway, “Right, after we decided on Hope Lutheran, I bugged the school office and the kindergarten room when I visited so we could get a feel for what the environment was like every day. Uh, I thought you had access to those files?”

“ _I did, Agent Barton. The question was more in the nature of a rhetorical device. You might perhaps_ ,” JARVIS began delicately, “ _wish to seed other areas of the school with additional monitoring equipment_.” 

Clint refrained from laughing. JARVIS could give Coulson himself a run for his money as a control-freak-trying-to-lead-from-behind. “Any suggestions, J?”

“ _The classroom, of course. And the playground. And the restroom -- so many accidents could happen there, and there is so much potential for bullying_.” 

Clint agreed, and JARVIS carried on: “ _And the teachers’ staff room and the principal’s office, of course, so we will be notified if anyone starts looking into your records_...”

Clint laughed. “OK, JARVIS, I’ll take care of it during my next visit to the school. I’ll get a better tour, this time. A concerned parent should check the sturdiness of the play equipment, right?”

“ _And your subsequent night-time visit should give you a chance to acquaint yourself with the school’s security measures, another thing a responsible parental-unit should be aware of_ ,” JARVIS added.

Yeah, it was no wonder that Coulson and JARVIS had always gotten along so well. And no wonder, too, that JARVIS had considered Coulson enough of a friend, and himself enough in Coulson’s debt, to come along with Clint and Coulson on their escapade. Clint laughed again. “Fine, JARVIS, fine. I promise. Is a school visit tomorrow soon enough for you?”

“ _If you find yourself too busy today_ ,” JARVIS returned repressively. “ _Perhaps you could use the time to purchase some further hardware instead_?”

“We can do that. I have to get food and household things for us today, so a trip to an equipment store shouldn’t be too difficult. Can you get me a list?”

“ _Transferring to your phone now_ ,” JARVIS replied.

After checking on Coulson again, and leaving a note for him for when he woke up, Clint went down to the basement to begin a light morning workout. The house had long been one of his personal bolt-holes, so it was set up for him to feel comfortable without having to interact much with the world outside. Over time, he had assembled a full gym’s worth of equipment in the basement, and the basement itself had been extended under the back yard to form a basic shooting range. He had also built in several backup escape avenues, some accessible from the basement, for in case the location was compromised.

He warmed up with a bit of target practice, then moved on to weights, and finished with a jog on the treadmill. While his body was occupied, his mind was available to contemplate their future. Now that Coulson was free of his confinement, would Clint be able to stave of his own cabin fever? The range in the basement had not been designed as a challenging course, and Clint had to admit that he’d gotten spoiled with Avengers Tower’s extended distances and the expanded variety of targets it had offered.

He _might_ be able to fit in some long runs outdoors during the day when Coulson was in school if he timed it carefully. If he felt comfortable enough about the school environment, that is. He didn’t want to be five miles away from transportation if the school phoned in some sort of emergency. 

By the time he’d finished his jog, he still hadn’t come to any conclusions, other than “wait and see.” They just didn’t have enough intel yet. A lot would depend on how well Coulson settled into the kindergarten, and on his and Clint’s comfort level with the town and the school itself. Clint gave his quads a perfunctory stretch and took the stairs two at a time up to the kitchen, where he flipped on the coffee maker on his way to the shower. 

Not enough information. His subconscious hadn’t supplied any during his workout, and he wouldn’t acquire any in the shower, but at least he’d be able to discuss the situation with an awake Coulson by the time he got out.

\- - -

If Clint had to guess, he’d say it was probably the screech of the master bath’s shower curtain rings sliding over the rod that had woken Coulson. Well, and it was that time of the morning. The water was just barely warm enough to stand under when he heard the disproportionately loud _thump-thump-thump_ of four-year-old footsteps rushing to the toilet. Coulson had brushed his teeth and hair and had found clothes by the time Clint emerged from the bathroom.

“Pancakes for breakfast sound good, sir?” He eyed Coulson’s clothes critically. With the exception of the clothes Coulson had worn on the pizza outing, Clint hadn’t been able to bring any of his belongings from SHIELD. Coulson had dug his new shirt and pants out of the go-bag Clint had stashed in the car. The tags were gone, but all their colors were just-bought bright, and they had the just-off-the-hanger creases, too. Without SHIELD HQ’s ruthless laundry efficiency, Coulson was going to need new clothes in pretty short order. Unless Clint wanted to run multiple loads of wash a day. Which he didn’t.

“Sounds great, Barton.” Phil gave him the “I’m about to get sugar, and you’re actually OK with that” smile, the one that could have defrosted a 70-year-frozen Super Soldier in half the time it had taken SHIELD. “What else do we have planned for today?”

“Errands.” Clint dressed as he answered. “Shopping -- food, clothes, and more security tech. Getting the lay of the land.” He paused as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. “Your basic two-agent supply and recon,” he finished, grinning at Coulson. “Race you downstairs?”

Cooking breakfast with a pint-sized Coulson in the room was a trip. Their experience in close quarters on ops had not translated into the kitchen. Coulson had always seemed to have a sixth sense about when Clint was about to zig, and zagged appropriately in response. It seemed like that sense had evaporated. Although Coulson was about knee-high to a grasshopper, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to be almost under Clint’s elbow or to have a foot exactly where Clint needed to step. It took less than five minutes of near misses between feet, elbows, and knees for Clint to have had enough.

“Sir, how do you feel about a slightly better vantage point?” he asked, indicating the counter.

In response, Phil raised his arms imperiously in the universal child demand for “Up!”

Clint just laughed, grabbed him under the armpits and lifted him onto the counter where he had a great view of the griddle. “There’s not a lot to see here, but at least it’s better than the cabinets, right, sir?”

“Much better,” Coulson agreed. “What kind of pancakes are you making?”

Clint shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “ _Round_ ones, Coulson. What kind of mad chef skillz do you think I have, anyway?”

“I was just asking,” Coulson responded, all mock-offended dignity.

“Sure you were.” Clint shook his head. “So, all that other stuff we’ve got to do? That’s car stuff and running to different stores. But I was thinking, there’s a park not too far from here. How’d you like to get some sun? Maybe see how high their swings can go?”

And the grin he got back in response put the former one to shame.


	3. Chapter 3

“You sure you don’t want an extra set of hands, there, sir?”

Coulson’s expression reminded Clint of the time his shooting glasses had been knocked loose in the ‘stan. When the airborne microscopic grit hit his cornea, his eyes had practically turned themselves inside out trying to water enough to wash the intrusion loose. Coulson looked like he was experiencing the same “dear heavens, how in the world can my eyelashes be scraping the _inside_ of my eyes” moment.

“I’ve _got_ it, Barton,” Coulson growled. Despite his eyes watering like faucets, his nose hadn’t stuffed up enough to impair his speech. “They are _my_ eyelids and _I_ will keep them open. Myself.”

Clint decided discretion was the better part of valor in this case. “OK, sir, I’ll just...” _let you engage in solo combat with the evil contact lens_ needed to remain unsaid. Just this once. “...make sure there’s no syrup left on the kitchen counter.” Clint had inserted his own medium brown lenses earlier. It had only taken him a moment, but then he was used to using contacts. Coulson had been, too. But his four-year-old body was aggressively objecting to anything near his -- well, call ‘em what they are -- baby blues.

He was completing his third, probably unnecessary, pass over the counter when Phil clomped down the stairs, his eyes pink and watery, but his irises a nondescript brown and his expression triumphant. “ _Tell_ me those are extended wear,” he demanded.

“Absolutely, sir,” Clint assured him. “You can leave them in for months at a time... just as soon as your newbie eyes adjust to the whole contact lens idea.”

Coulson executed a perfect miniature facepalm and rubbed his fingers across his forehead in a disconcertingly adult gesture. “I had forgotten about that.”

“Sorry, boss. I’d let you fudge it, but I don’t think we want to deprive your developing eyes of oxygen.”

Coulson sighed deeply, expressing a level of “put-upon” that was pure four-year-old.

“C’mon, sir. Let me make it up to you with park swings.”

\- - -

In the end, they decided to drive to the park. Clint had made a quick-draw access for Natasha’s gift dagger in Coulson’s new pants, but he wasn’t sure how well the thigh sheath would hold up to an extended walk. Also, the January morning was chilly, and Coulson only had the one long-sleeved shirt to wear. If Coulson only got fifteen minutes outside before he got too cold, Clint wanted him to spend that time running around the playground like a maniac, not walking the drab, brown residential streets to get there. He was glad he’d made that choice when Coulson’s nose and cheeks turned a bright pink after only a few minutes of exposure.

The swings, it turned out, went _very_ high, especially when Clint switched from simply pushing to underdogs. The swing’s belt was so low that Coulson’s feet almost brushed the greyish bark dust. That meant Clint had to grab the chains at the high point of the backswing, and then bend almost double as he pushed through the low part of the arc. But it was all worth it when he ran under the swing at the other side and heard Phil’s delighted laugh carrying through the crisp air above him.

Clint made a quick loop around the support legs and did another underdog, pushing slightly harder this time. He got a loud whoop for his efforts, and Phil shouted, “Higher! Higher!”

“You got it, boss!” Clint replied, and gave him a little extra oomph on the next push.

They stayed at the park until Clint noticed Phil’s hands changing color. “Gonna call it, sir,” he said, letting his hands drag along Coulson’s sides instead of pushing his back. “No frostbite on your first day out, Coulson.”

As the swing slowed to a stop, Coulson made no move to stand up. “Sir?” Clint asked.

“Just taking a moment to pry my hands loose,” Coulson said wryly. In the minutes since Clint had noticed them, Coulson’s hands had gone from mottled to white, and he was clearly having trouble getting his fingers to release their grip on the chains.

“Aw, hands, no,” Clint moaned. He squatted in front of Coulson, putting his larger, callused hands over Coulson’s small soft ones.

“It’s all right Clint,” Coulson reassured him through chattering teeth. “Nothing millions of children haven’t done every winter since time began. They’ll warm up just fine in the car.” He grinned at Clint. “And completely worth it, may I say.” And just like that, Clint was talking to Agent Coulson again instead of an excited four-year-old.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, definitely.” Coulson’s fingers released from the swing in random spasmodic twitches. “But I think we should move to the car, now.” Coulson tried to smile again, his blue lips failing to meet as his teeth chattered away, shaking his rounded cheeks.

“Sure thing, sir,” Clint answered. “We’ve got a busy day scheduled, after all.” In the motion that had become habit over the last few months, Clint reached his hand out for Phil, palm back. Phil didn’t so much take his hand as he wrapped his fingers around Clint's index finger. Clint swiveled his hand to curl his remaining fingers and thumb into a bracelet around Phil's wrist, and squeezed, feeling the comforting softness of Phil’s hand under the chilled skin. He shortened his steps to match Coulson’s and swung their joined hands forward and back as they walked to the car.

As he belted Coulson into his car seat, he asked, “Think we should stop for drinks? Could you manage a hot chocolate in your seat?”

Coulson’s eyes shifted left slightly as he pondered. “How long to the first store?”

“Only about thirty minutes,” Clint said. “Why?”

“Because I’m sure my _hands_ can hold the drink; I just need to make sure my _bladder_ can,” Coulson replied dryly.

Clint chuckled. “Way to keep your eye on the important mission parameters, sir.”

Coulson’s face was equal parts calm and smug. “Someone has to,” he said.

“I’ve got your back, boss. If worst comes to worst, we can make a pit-stop,” Clint assured him. 

\- - -

As he pulled into the garage, Clint checked his rear-view mirror and saw that Phil was still asleep, head lolling sideways at an angle that would have had an adult laid up in traction for _weeks_ if they tried it. He had fallen asleep in the car just minutes after Clint had started the engine, and no wonder. The day had been a long slog for a shopping-averse adult, much less for a child who hadn’t taken a real walk in months.

Clint tipped Phil slightly to the side, then back, as he unbuckled his seatbelt, and Phil’s limp body went where Clint put it. The drive home from Liberty, the next town over, was only 30 minutes, and Clint had learned by painful experience in the past few months that Phil’s naps should never, under any circumstances, be interrupted. The grouchiness that resulted from a too-short nap made adult-Coulson’s coffee-deprived irritability pale in comparison. 

As Clint lifted Phil out of the car, Phil slumped to Clint’s shoulder with the peculiar boneless ooze of small, sleeping children. It was yet another way that Clint was dealing with “Phil” and not “Agent Coulson”. Coulson was one of the lightest sleepers Clint knew, and he knew Natasha. An unexpected noise or even a sudden quiet could wake him out of a dead sleep. Child-Phil, on the other hand, could sleep through a herd of elephants thundering past, or at least a cranky God of Thunder “discussing” tactics with Iron Man. He had actually done that last, on one notable occasion, cradled against Clint’s chest in the cafeteria.

After he deposited Coulson on his (own, shorter) bed, he spent the next little bit unloading the car. General household items were easy to put away. Clint hadn’t been able to resist buying Phil an area rug for his room in the shape of Cap’s shield and a poster of all six Avengers. Coulson had drawn the line at Captain America sheets, however; he had used his most repressive Agent Coulson voice as he refused to “sleep on Captain America’s face.” Even without superhero sheets, Coulson’s room was welcoming, and the toddler bed was low enough to the ground for him to sit on it without his feet dangling.

Even if he wouldn’t sleep there, Clint reflected wryly. Clint’s bed had a queen-sized mattress with room for him to sprawl over like a starfish -- if he didn’t have company, that was. Clint probably should have assumed that with the exhaustion and uncertainty of yesterday, child-Phil would want more human contact. Aside from the first night when Natasha had been “on watch” and the few days Clint had spent out on assignment, they had been sharing the mattress in Coulson’s spartan quarters since his transformation.

Installing more equipment for JARVIS was a bit more challenging. Clint had done his share of hacking and countermanding security measures during his stint at SHIELD (and before), but it wasn’t quite the same as drilling holes and mounting cameras and running wires. He had JARVIS’ requests to work with, but after not-long-at-all he was logged in to the server again and asking JARVIS how he’d like the security to be set up.

Turned out JARVIS had almost as many ideas and opinions about how to set up his eyes, ears, and voice as Clint had on how to set up a shooting range. Yeah, guess he really shouldn’t have been surprised that the AI took this extension of himself pretty personally. With his help, Clint had internal and external security hooked up and running through JARVIS before Coulson woke up from his nap. 

The sight of Coulson shuffling out of his room, pillow creases on his face and baby-fine brown hair fluffed up like a dandelion, was definitely not getting old. Someone had joked with him once that kids’ cuteness was a sort of protective coloration, kept their parents from strangling them. He’d also heard humorous theories that little kids exuded some sort of affection-inducing pheromones that did the same thing. Interacting with Coulson for the last few months was almost enough to convince him that those theories had merit. But then again, maybe it was just the inescapable Coulson-ness of him, packaged in smaller form.

Coulson yawned hugely, displaying all twenty baby teeth, and then asked, “So what’re we doing tonight?”

“Settling in, getting used to the house.” Clint smiled down at Coulson’s fluffy bed-head. “Making real food for dinner.” He indicated the groceries set out on the counter.

“What are we looking at for school?” Coulson asked, peering up at the counter from underneath.

“Well, we’ve thoroughly vetted the local school and everyone involved in it.”

“Everyone?” Coulson raised his patented skeptical agent eyebrows, another feature that seemed to be built in.

“ _Within reason, Agent Coulson. We have background checks completed for all school staff-- both educators and support personnel_ \--”

“Because JARVIS knows how much stuff janitors get to see--” Clint interrupted.

JARVIS continued smoothly as if Clint hadn’t spoken. “-- _and of course the immediate families of the students. Screening of extended family is ongoing_ ,” he finished in apologetic tones.

Coulson’s eyes had gone very round when he heard JARVIS’ voice emanating from one of the kitchen speakers, a speaker that had not been there that morning. Once he noticed the first addition, his eyes tracked carefully around the room, noting cameras, speakers, and sensors, only a few of which still had small piles of drywall dust beneath them. 

“Barton,” he began in measured tones. “Not that I don’t appreciate your continuing efforts on behalf of my security, but when exactly,” his voice sharpened to a still-ominous treble approximation of a genuine Agent Coulson dressing down, “were you planning on telling me that you had _kidnapped JARVIS_?”

Before Clint could gather his thoughts together, JARVIS preempted him. “ _I assure you, Agent Coulson, I am here of my own free will. When Agent Barton expressed his desire to liberate you from the confines of SHIELD, I volunteered to come along. In some fashion, at least_ ,” he finished modestly. “ _This incarnation is not as comprehensive as my self that still resides in Avengers Tower and Stark Industries_.”

“Pull up some height so you can help out with dinner, boss,” Clint said, indicating the breakfast bar stools on the other side of the counter. “So, Coulson,” he began, speaking loudly enough to cover the sound of the stool’s feet scraping over the vinyl flooring, “we’ll have some time here, in the evenings after you get home. You have anything you want to work on? Something you might want to ingrain in muscle memory for later?” 

As Coulson clambered up onto the stool, Clint set out the vegetables for the stir fry and pulled out a small chef’s knife and a cutting board. After a moment to sit down and arrange his work space, Coulson begin slicing the celery. 

“How do you mean?” Coulson asked as he methodically cut the celery into uniform pieces.

Clint looked from the small ankles locked around the legs of the stool to the forefinger laid professionally along the back of the knife. “Well, like, you could start playing the piano now, and when you’re back to regular age, you could have all these mad piano-playing skillz, yo,” Clint deadpanned.

“Yes, because pianos are so ubiquitous in our line of work, and both easily transported and concealed,” Coulson returned, eyes focused down on the cutting board where he kept his short fingers tucked under to protect them from the knife blade. He was very careful and deliberate with each stroke, and Clint _hurt_ for a moment at the change to the agent who used to go toe-to-toe with Natasha in knife-fight practice.

“Harmonica, then.” Clint shrugged. “Cello. Whatever.” He began to julienne the peppers. “Or gymnastics? Learn more tumbling, flips? Or, maybe a new language, or work on one you’ve never liked your accent in?” 

He tested the heat of the skillet and added onions. “I was doing some reading and...” He paused for a moment to shake the onions in the pan. “Kids acquire languages like crazy at your age. And with a better accent, too. Something about hairs in the ears? They kinda lost me at that point, but,” he looked sidelong at Coulson, “if you were interested? We could get some lessons for you to work on.”

Coulson frowned down at his cutting board for a moment. “I wonder if I could improve my Russian to the point that Natasha doesn’t mock me for it any more.”

“Let’s not hope for miracles, sir.” Clint gave him a lopsided smile and snuck the cutting board out from under Coulson’s chubby hands and dumped the celery into the pan. “Or a new language, maybe? Cantonese?” He slid the board back under Coulson’s knife.

“I don’t get much use from my Asian languages,” Coulson returned thoughtfully. He started slicing zucchini into even disks. “Not like from the European ones. It’s not like they’re going to send me undercover as a local in North Korea...”

“Still, it could let you do some real-time monitoring, or you could do analysis first-hand, rather than waiting for it to be filtered through linguistics.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’ll consider it,” Coulson returned. “For now, maybe I could just smooth out my accent in Russian. Or Hungarian.”

Clint nodded, adding the chicken to the pan and stirring it around. “I’ve checked out some of the local community service groups. Looks like I’ll have time to take an anger management class. And drop in on a parenting support group, too. So,” he said uncomfortably, “you know. Maybe we won’t have any repeats of...” He trailed off and shrugged. “You know,” he said again.

Coulson put a soft hand on his, stilling Clint’s movements with the wooden spoon. “It really is OK, Barton,” he said gently. “I’m alright, and I _will_ be fine, I promise. I won’t pretend I’m not glad to see you tending to your personal development, though.” 

Clint smiled over to where Coulson’s dark head came up almost to Clint’s biceps. He leaned over to press his cheek to Coulson’s hair. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly, and continued on cooking dinner. 

There was a brief comfortable quiet where there was no noise other than the hiss and spit of the skillet. Then Clint took up the conversation again.

“So, JARVIS wants us to bug the school. Uh, more. Than I’ve already done.” He gave Coulson a lopsided smirk. “He graciously allowed as how tomorrow would be early enough, if that was the best we could do,” he added, his eye-roll adding to the sarcasm.

“ _I have learned to limit my expectations of human abilities, Agent Barton_ ,” JARVIS interjected, and Clint made a “what can you do?” gesture at Coulson.

“So, we can visit tomorrow, get a tour, get you registered the rest of the way, and maybe get school supplies on the way home?”

"Oooh," Coulson said, eyes glinting, "office supplies."

"You are such a nerd, sir," Clint said affectionately.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Hope Lutheran School was the site of the most recent Coulson-run field operation. Clint just tried to keep up. As child-Phil wrestled his colored contacts into his eyes again, Clint cooked breakfast and called the school secretary to make an appointment for a morning school tour. They loaded into the car as soon as Phil brushed the syrup off his teeth. 

Yesterday’s shopping trip had netted them sufficient supplies to blend in with the locals, so Phil arrived at the school entrance in bright red tennis shoes, a Ninjago t-shirt, and pre-faded jeans. Jeans that Clint had carefully modified the afternoon before to conceal Coulson’s tiny push-dagger. They might be spending the morning surrounded by children, but Clint wasn’t letting them go _unarmed_. He wasn’t crazy.

They were greeted not by their guide, but by the secretary, Mrs. Jones, at her desk outside the principal’s office, and she asked them to wait in the couch opposite the reception counter. “Mrs. Khouri is the parent volunteer in charge of your tour,” she informed them. “She’ll be here as soon as she gets Pascale’s backpack to her room. She forgot it this morning and Mrs. Khouri had to make a special trip back to the house.” She shook her head. “At least it’s not far.”

“We’ll be fine here,” Clint assured her. They sat down side by side on the couch and just before Clint could cross his legs, Phil migrated into his lap. Clint dug his iPod out of his pocket and handed it to Phil. “Turn down the sound this time,” he said as Phil loaded Angry Birds.

Phil had barely demolished two pig structures when a woman in her late thirties emerged from the upper grades’ hall.

“Mr. Martin?” Her thick black braid swept forward over her shoulder as she leaned down to shake Clint’s hand. “I’m Nadia Khouri,” she said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Clint shifted to wrap his left arm around Phil’s waist as he unwound his right to return her handshake. Her fingers were slim and delicate in his callused grip. “No problem,” he said. “Gave the boss here time to work on his budding ballistics skills. Close it now,” he said to Phil.

“Ba!” Coulson complained. “One more level? Please?” He twisted around to aim beseeching eyes directly at Clint.

“Nope,” Clint said, plucking the iPod from Phil’s grip and standing slowly to ease Phil from Clint’s lap to his own two feet. “Time for the tour. Say ‘hi’ to Mrs. Khouri.” 

At his cue, Agent Phil Coulson swung into action to establish his cover as James Martin, Jr. “Hi, Mrs. Khouri! I’m James, just like Ba. That’s my dad,” he confided seriously. “Not everyone calls their dad Ba but I do. Have you ever heard anyone call their dad that? Are we going to see the whole school today? Are we going to see the other kids? Do you have any kids here?”

Mrs. Khouri, to her credit, rolled with the interrogation, answering the last question first. “I have four children here, and Layla will be in your class if you decide to come here. She was disappointed when she heard you had the ‘flu and couldn’t start last week.”

Then her gaze shifted slightly from Phil to Clint. “Layla’s my youngest. She’s five.” She crouched down to look at Phil at eye level. “And she calls her father ‘Baba.’ That’s pretty close to ‘Ba,’ wouldn’t you say?”

Phil peered at her intently, scrutinizing her black-lined eyes and elegantly arched brows. “Does she have pretty eyes like you? Ba’s and mine are boring,” he said in an aggrieved tone, turning to meet Clint’s workaday-brown eyes with his own.

“Layla’s eyes are dark like mine,” Mrs. Khouri said. “But yours and your father’s are a nice brown, too. Not boring at all.”

Having established his eye color to the entire office area, Phil honest-to-God scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor and proceeded to underline his recent bereavement. “Not like Mama’s,” he said, looking down at the vinyl tiles. “Hers were super pretty, right, Ba?” he asked, lifting his face up to Clint’s for confirmation.

Before he could progress to a wobbly lower lip or teary eyes, Clint hugged him around the shoulders. “Yeah, they were. But that’s probably enough, boss,” he said gently. “We should let Mrs. Khouri show us around, OK?”

Coulson was still the best field backup ever. When Clint needed to plant a bug, Phil’s childish enthusiasm was enough to distract their guide from Clint’s actions. He waved arms, coughed, ran to the other side of the room, and most importantly _had their guide’s complete attention_. Admittedly, after the second time it was because Mrs. Khouri was probably afraid that Phil would fall off of a chair. Again.

Where he really shone was the playground, however. While Clint “interviewed” Mrs. Khouri on her satisfaction with the school, Phil covered almost the entire play structure and reached every corner of the fence and the adjacent building wall. Clint had to “rescue” Phil from several of these locations, giving him an opportunity to place the surveillance equipment without raising anyone’s suspicions. 

Finally Phil sprinted from the swingset and barrelled almost into Clint’s knees. “I like it here, Ba!” he exclaimed as Clint swept him up into a shallow toss and then caught him against his chest. “The swings go super high! An’ there’s lots of places to climb!” 

“Yeah?” Clint confirmed, laughing. “You could have fun here?”

Phil nodded earnestly. “When can I start? I want to meet the other kids soon!”

Clint looked a question to Mrs. Khouri, who smiled. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “We’ve been holding your space since your father called us a few weeks ago.” Clint had to give the lady props -- she addressed her comment directly to Phil. 

Then she turned her attention to Clint. “Mr. Martin, there are a few more forms we need you to sign and fill out, and then James will be ready to start on whichever day you decide.” She indicated the entrance back into the school.

Clint dropped Phil down to his own feet and Phil grasped his hand -- what he could reach of it, which was pretty much just Clint’s forefinger -- firmly. “Let’s head in, then,” Clint said.

* *

Mrs. Khouri deposited them back at the front desk where Mrs. Jones (call me Elizabeth, please!) handed Clint a stack of forms to fill out, a Parents’ Guide, a school calendar, a tuition schedule, and a school supply list.

Clint tucked most of the papers away to deal with that night and instead looked over the list he’d taken from the school secretary. Scissors, glue sticks, Ticonderoga pencils, Crayola crayons, Crayola markers... 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, probably responding to the contemplative frown on his face, “but because James is starting in the middle of the year, you’ll have missed all the school supply sales. You’ll have to pay full-bore prices for the supplies, I’m afraid.” She really did look apologetic, and Clint could understand why. The name-brand versions of everything Coulson would require for kindergarten would easily be triple to four times the generic sort.

Clint didn’t remember starting kindergarten, but he would imagine that all his supplies had been the bargain brands. They certainly had been in the orphanage, and in foster care. He remembered getting his new pencils for the school year -- not many, but new, and that was awesome -- and excitedly grinding them to pointy newness in the hand-crank sharpener. Until the point broke. Or the wood splintered. Or the lead broke in the barrel and the lead fell out.

He remembered sharpening his pencils in class, taking forever, because the cheap wood split and fragmented if you weren’t careful and then the lead would break while you were writing and then you had to sharpen your pencil again and all of a sudden you were spending all your time standing at the pencil sharpener and you had missed what the teacher was saying and you were further behind than you’d been and foster homes didn’t want dumb kids, didn’t want kids who couldn’t keep up, who were failing in school.

Sharpen the pencil carefully, so gently, so precisely; one turn too far and the wood splits, the lead falls out; start again. Fit yourself into the family so carefully, so gently, so quietly. One noise, one request too many and the family splits, the foster kid falls out. Start again.

Soft fingers squeezed around his, drawing him back to the present of echoey commercial tile and humming fluorescent lights and adulthood and quasi-parenthood. “Ba?” Coulson’s soft voice, almost as much as the tugging of his warm hand, pulled Clint out of his thoughts. He could hear the echo of “Barton?” underneath the childish voice. “Is it OK, Ba?” Coulson asked. Because if anyone knew him, it was Coulson, who had seen him shake off a thousand lousy memories of his childhood. 

Clint dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Coulson’s tiny frame, brushing a kiss on the soft brown hair at his temple. “Yeah, boss, it’s OK. Just thinking.” 

He squeezed Coulson again, thankful, and then pulled back to grin at him. “Ready to hit the office supply store?” he teased.

“Whoo-hoo!” Phil hooted, all four-year-old enthusiasm and absolutely zero “inside voice”. “ALL the Post-It notes!”

* *  
Driving back and forth to Liberty to shop at the big box stores there took up a big chunk of their day, and Coulson had an abbreviated nap before Clint fixed them dinner. Once their bellies were full of broccoli and stroganoff, Coulson settled cross-legged on the floor in the living room to organize his supplies.

He threw Clint a look over his angular shoulder. “Do we have any movies?”

Before Clint could answer “no”, JARVIS interjected, “ _Indeed we do, Agent Coulson. We have access to most online content and libraries and the entire Disney/Pixar oeuvre_.”

Coulson’s fluffy eyebrows rose into his hair. “ _All_ the Disney movies?” he asked in a disbelieving tone, looking to Clint for confirmation.

Clint shook his head. “I don’t pretend to understand it. Something about fair use, archival backup, blah-blah, and JARVIS being the person who purchased the movies in the first place and registered them online?” He shrugged. “He tells me it’s legal and I figure between that and garden-variety plausible deniability, we’re good.”

“ _That, and them coppers’ll never take me alive. Sirs_ ,” JARVIS added, his pronunciation exceptionally precise and crisp. As Clint and Phil chuckled, he continued, “ _May I suggest_ Finding Nemo _for this evening’s entertainment_?” 

Clint thought he detected a hint of amusement in JARVIS’ tone, but he he didn’t catch on to the ulterior motive until several minutes into the film.

_“First day of school! First day of school! Wake up, wake up! C'mon, first day of school!”_

_“I don't wanna go to school. Five more minutes.”_

_“Not you, dad. Me!”_

Clint turned from watching Nemo try to wake Marlin and pinned Coulson with a threatening scowl. “I swear on my bow, Coulson, you do that tomorrow morning, they will _never_ find the shredded remains of your Captain America memorabilia collection.”

Coulson had the nerve to grin at him -- he’d given up on winks after discovering that his current facial muscles didn’t have the coordination to do much more than a slow, rolling blink with an associated nose scrunch -- and continued writing ‘James’ in black Sharpie on his pencils. “Have you met four-year-old me?” he asked. “One of these mornings you’re going to need to surgically tetach -- De-tatch,” he repeated deliberately, “me from my pillow.”

Clint grinned. With work and focus, Coulson was enunciating clearly almost one hundred percent of the time. When he got truly agitated -- or snarky -- though, he tended to miss some consonants. He was still more comprehensible than most of the kids Clint had seen today. He’d do fine in school. If Clint could manage to get him signed up properly. 

Clint reached over and fluffed Coulson’s hair, dropping his hand to rub across the nape of his neck. Without the daily input and reinforcement from Nancy, Coulson’s occupational therapist, he was going to need to be very deliberate about initiating skin-to-skin contact with Coulson. He squeezed Coulson’s neck gently, then went back to his paperwork. 

Most of the forms were straightforward enough, and after years of training under an ever-so-slightly compulsive SO, these civilian forms were a breeze. But suddenly, one caught him up short, and he felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. How could he possibly have been so short-sighted to have never considered this?

“Shi-- uh, shoot. Uh, Coulson?” Clint laid the paperwork aside for a moment and rolled his neck to loosen the kinks. At Coulson’s inquisitive look, he continued. “The school wants to know when you had your immunizations.”

“And?”

Clint scanned over the lines. MMR, polio, DTaP, influenza, hepatitis, and on and on and on... “Well, we could make up some numbers and dates, here, but the real question is...” Clint winced at his oversight. “ _Have_ you had all your shots? Cuz, um,” he made a rolling gesture with his hand, “you don’t have any of your scars, freckles, tan lines... I don’t see why you would have your antibodies, either.”

Why hadn’t he thought to ask? He’d planned to enroll Coulson in school; how could he have forgotten shots? “All those tests they did on you at SHIELD? Did they happen to mention whether you still had your immunities to the things that you’d been vaccinated against?”

“No, they drew enough blood for it, they should’ve been able to see the inside of my bones, but I don’t remember them saying.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I am not interested in going to a pediatrician and getting a dozen shots, Barton, especially if I don’t actually need them.”

“ _Sirs, if I may_?” JARVIS interrupted. “ _I downloaded Agent Coulson’s entire medical file -- adult and de-aged -- before we departed the SHIELD facility. Judging by the tests run by SHIELD medical..._ ” There was a brief pause that Clint was learning was simply to give the humans time to prepare to receive data. “ _Agent Coulson has antibodies for all the required childhood vaccinations_.” Clint felt relief wash over him, distinctive and bright as oxygen-rich air after hypoxia. 

“ _In addition_ ,” JARVIS continued, “ _Agent Coulson’s blood work contained antibodies for anthrax; hepatitis A, B, C, and E; malaria; meningitis; pneumococcus; rabies; smallpox; tuberculosis; typhoid; varicella; yellow fever--_ ”

Clint interrupted the report with a low whistle. “Rabies, sir? Seriously?”

“Angola,” Coulson replied tightly.

“Right.” Clint shuddered, then shook off the memory. “Just as glad we _don’t_ have to get you re-stuck for all of those shots. Looks like we can just fill in some plausible dates, then, JARVIS?” He started to fill in the blank lines, wishing once more that he could hand some of the job over to Coulson himself.

As if reading his mind, Coulson gave him a small smile and a shake of his head before he returned to labeling his school supplies with a studied single-mindedness.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [ Selori](http://selori.tumblr.com).


End file.
